don't leave me again
by Persephone Lemonade
Summary: It makes sense, honestly, because last time she saw him, he jumped off a building and his groan of pain that was quickly followed by silence was enough of a reminder that she and Clint weren't super humans like everyone else.


**whiny author's note: **for darling Anele. HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY, SWEETHEART. i'm sorry it's shitty and not what you originally asked for. it's natasha heavy too so you might hate me and it's really bad. gah sorry. love you, boo boo.

* * *

**don't leave me again.**

After Stark nearly dies, (only to be roared back to life by the Hulk; Maybe Bruce really can control him after all), half of her worries are put to rest when he begins to ramble about Shawarma, Natasha practically sprints off the roof of Stark Tower- or well, what's left of Stark Tower- leaving a confused Erik Selvig calling after her, but she's gone before he can even begin to find her, and she's positive the man's too exhausted from the mind control to bother at this point.

She didn't hear him and that was enough to send her into a fucking frenzy. Everyone spoke when Stark was falling out of the sky. Everyone... except for _him_. It makes sense, honestly, because last time she saw him, he jumped off a fucking building and his groan of pain that was quickly followed by silence was enough of a reminder that she and Clint weren't super humans like everyone else. It was a reminder that he could easily be-

Yeah, she isn't going to let her brain go there. She's going to think clinically like she's been doing all week. She has to, otherwise she really thinks she won't get through this.

She's running on pure adrenaline still; Her blood is pumping through her blood vessels at speeds that match those of a marathon runner, and, in theory, fighting off a demi god with daddy issues and an alien race to protect the Earth from enslavement was kind of like a marathon... or, you know, seventy-five, marathons. She'll probably collapse after all was said and done and once she was far away from anyone, but first, she _needs_ to find him.

Natasha runs as fast as she can, ignoring the chatter coming from Steve, Stark, and Thor over the comms, making her way to the building where Clint had been last. It was only a few blocks away from Stark Tower. She arrives before she knows it and looks up, quickly calculating in her head how many floors, the image of Clint swinging into that window clear as day in her mind.

Once she's sure of where she's going, she slips through one of the front doors, going unnoticed by the soldiers and police officers evacuating the civilians from the premises. She's surprised to see the building still has power and thinks of it as a sign. Power means elevators, elevators mean she can get to him faster (not that she'd be against sprinting all the way up to where he is).

When she steps into the elevator, the silence and few moments before she reaches the floor she assumes he's in allow her to take a moment to actually take in the fact that Clint might actually not be all right.

Her heart races.

...

Everything hurts. Every. Single. Muscle. He's been running on adrenaline and rage for the better part of the last few days and now as he lies on a pile of broken glass and the adrenaline's settled, he feels every ounce of the pain he's suppressed.

He feels the stinging in his chest from where Loki had impaled his scepter, the pounding headache from where his head had hit the bar, the increasing pain in his jaw from where Natasha had knocked him out earlier, every other injury he had sustained in the battle, including what he's sure are a sprained ankle and a dislocated knee, and the stabbing pain in his back from where he landed on his quiver.

And now he laying on a bed of glass. Not his best week ever, no.

He can't focus on this though. He needs to get the hell out of there, but he realizes he can't move. He tries to speak, at least into the comms to let his teammates (can he even call them that? should he?) know where he is, but he can't as the wind was knocked out of him and it just hurts to breathe.

But he tries to breathe anyway. It's all he can do. And he forces himself to roll over to at least try and army crawl to the door.

...

"Clint..." she calls, trying to keep her tone even, but she can definitely hear the waver in her own voice.

Natasha really doesn't know what she'd do if she lost Clint. She's thought about death in general and she doesn't tend to dwell on it; She's an assassin, death holds little regard in her book, but this is Clint. And while, yes, she knows in their line of work, their lives are at stake every moment of every day, but in the six years they've been partners, she's learned that losing Clint was most certainly not an option.

She quietly makes her way down the halls, looking in every single office for the archer. It's empty, this floor, and she's glad because if she'd had to weave in between people to get to him, things wouldn't have ended well.

She's just stepping out of the second to last office when slow and sudden movement catches her eye.

Natasha sees his boot from where he's laying on the floor across the room and she remembers to breathe again. "Clint," she says again, this time more firmly, as she makes her way over to him.

"T-Tasha?" he sounds winded.

She makes it to his side and she's squatting down next to him. "You look like shit, Barton," she whispers, almost smiling.

He chuckles and winces in the process. Natasha's hand gently rests on his chest. "Really? I think I look pretty good," he manages with a smirk, "Barton," he adds with a wink.

She shushes him, pulling out their comms and turning them off. "The next time you decide to jump off a building, I'll shoot you between the eyes myself," she murmurs, half serious, bringing her hand up to trace a finger over his cheek.

"Oops?"

She shakes her head. "Can you move?" she asks, carefully brushing as much glass as she can off his uniform with her gloved palm. He nods and she then offers him a hand, which he takes gratefully, and she helps him sit up. "And now you know why I tell you to wear sleeves." She eyes the glass embedded in his biceps and winces inwardly.

"You're seriously gonna nag me right now, Nat?" he asks looking at her, carefully tugging her onto his lap.

"We need to get you out of here," she reminds him, running a hand through his hair. "And I need to get that glass out of your skin."

Clint slips his arms around her. "We will; I just need a minute with my wife." He brings a hand up to up her cheek, wiping away the bits of dust and debris marring her soft skin.

Natasha kisses him, her soft lips moulding against his firm ones as she kisses him slowly and gently, feeling all of her fears fade, at least for a little while. And in a moment of vulnerability, she murmurs against his lips. "I was so sure I'd lost you again just now..."

"I'm right here, Nat," he says, kissing her once more.

"I know, but I just got you back," she tells him before sighing. She stands and moves to his side to help him up. Once he's standing, she lets him lean on her, keeping the weight off his injured ankle and knee. "Just don't leave me again, all right?" her tone is clinical, almost businesslike, not liking the vulnerability to it. Sure, it's her husband and around him all of her inhibitions don't exist, but still, they had been in this situation a million times before, and this time, it just hit harder because there as just a chance he wouldn't come home.

"I'm right here, Natasha." His tone is serious. "I'm not going anywhere," he reassures her, dropping a kiss to the side of her head. "I'm not leaving you."

For now, it's enough.


End file.
